


His Eyes, Like a Flame

by craple



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eye Sex, First Date, M/M, Montparnasse's thighs are illegal someone inform Javert of this immediately, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It must be the lack of cravat around his neck, Jehan thinks, which is not something Jehan is disappointed to find the lack thereof, because he has always known Montparnasse to be beautiful; with long legs and lithe-slightly muscled figure and oft gloved-hands.</p><p>His neck – slender and the skin porcelain-pale – is not any exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Eyes, Like a Flame

**Author's Note:**

> wow this came out longer and fluffier than i expected. bored-me is awesome.

Jehan doesn't recognise him at first, standing on the other side of the street, dressed in black button-down shirt with the first top two left open and dark blue jeans so tight he is positive that it must be illegal and breaking at least a dozen laws of public decency.

It must be the lack of cravat around his neck, Jehan thinks, which is not something Jehan is disappointed to find the lack thereof, because he has always known Montparnasse to be beautiful; with long legs and lithe-slightly muscled figure and oft gloved-hands.

His neck – slender and the skin porcelain-pale – is not any exception.

One can easily mistake Montparnasse as a model, he muses. Supermodel or actor or anything that requires him to be this beautiful. Jehan doesn't like, would rather not, comparing his friends against someone he's met randomly on the street of Paris every morning, but he can't help to compare Courfeyrac's dark hair to Montparnasse's ink black one, Grantaire's electric blue eyes to Montparnasse's deep blue, or Enjolras' bone structure to Montparnasse's own.

And his neck is very, very distracting. Every time he tries to carve a part of Montparnasse into his mind – he appreciates a thing of beauty, no matter how corrupt on the inside said beauty is, thank you ever much – his eyes are always drawn back to his neck, or his eyes. At this distance, Jehan can make out a trail of dark ink on the crook of his neck when Montparnasse shifts, the wind pushing his collar out of the way for a minute, like it wants the clothes off as much as Jehan wants it burnt.

Not that he has anything against the shirt, mind you. It is very fitting, it defines everything Montparnasse has under the fabric, even so, and don't even get him started on what those jeans are doing to his _thighs_.

He must be staring for far too long and far too intense, and he is aware that he is ruining the ivory tablecloth by spilling his tea, that he looks ridiculous with flowers in his hair and teal-coloured blouse that reaches a few inches above his knees; silver belt around his waist and the peppermint jeggings in lieu of pants, today, as the weather is nice and Jehan is feeling lucky. Like find-a-date-lucky and getting-laid-lucky.

Montparnasse is staring straight back at him, when Jehan is done molesting his thighs visually. His eyes are very dark, very enchanting, and Jehan is trapped in his gaze.

(He's a student of art; dramatising everything is in his _nature_.)

Looking away will be an act of cowardice and Jehan is anything _but_. He keeps his eyes locked on Montparnasse's own, feels his heart drumming a little faster, his lungs a tad bit heavier, the pit of his stomach heating a hundred degrees.

Even looking at Montparnasse is suffocating. Jehan wonders what ripping that silk black shirt off his body will feel like, what will Montparnasse do if Jehan traces the tattoo with his tongue, leaving marks all over his neck because he's always been a biter in bed; what it will feel like to straddle those thighs or riding his cock until morning. If Montparnasse's dark scorching eyes will be dilated like they are now if Jehan ties him to the bed and worships his body like it deserves every single night.

His cock is stirring already, far too invested with the idea, the images that his mind provides, the sorts of _things_ Jehan wants to do to him, wants Montparnasse to do to him, and –

This is bad.

 _Really_ bad.

Jehan wonders if flushing and ducking his head under the table to the aftermath of a very intense eyefucking with the stranger across the street is an appropriate response. He considers doing so when Musichetta plucks his half-empty teacup out of his hand, replaces it with a newly filled one – the same as the one he has spilled over the table, gosh he really needs to apologise or tip her more than usual – places a platter of pretzels plus six low fat cupcakes on the table near his cup.

Then she puts another cup of steaming black coffee on the other side of the table and Jehan. Blinks. Looks up to find her smirking down at him in response. He gestures weakly at the added cup of coffee in what he hopes is questioning, even though he's fairly sure she knows he already knows the answer to his unasked question.

"He's coming over, you'll need it." Musichetta tells him cheerfully, and when Jehan asks, how can she be so sure, the bombshell beauty shrugs a shoulder elegantly. "It's Montparnasse we're talking about, of course he's coming over." Jehan is pretty sure, is a hundred percent positive actually, that she knows this more because Montparnasse already is coming over and not because she truly does know Montparnasse.

True to her words, the moment she's gone, the seat opposite his is pulled back and occupied by none other than Montparnasse.

Jehan looks because he can't _not_ look. He looks because Montparnasse is worth the attention than anything in this old coffee shop, because Montparnasse is very beautiful and also very hot and looks gorgeously fuckable this close, because his long legs are bracketing Jehan's own under the table and he is leaning forward with arms crossed on the table.

Montparnasse fingers curl around the handle of the cup, lifts it up to his lips, and takes a tentative sip of the coffee. Jehan watches the proceeding shamelessly, as it is within his range to do so and he doesn't think Montparnasse mind, really, with the way he is keeping his eyes trained on Jehan's eyes, then Jehan's mouth, back to Jehan's eyes again. He only hopes Montparnasse finds him as distracting as he finds Montparnasse is.

There is a beat where Jehan taps his fingers on the surface of his notebook, atop one of the newly written poems he scribbled down when he found Montparnasse there. Something about the juncture where neck meets shoulder, the jut of collarbones, the sliver of skin visible between where the black shirt is rucked up and the sinfully tight jeans.

He won't be surprised if, when, Grantaire borrows his notebook for one of his doodles, to find him with his shit-eating grin and the delicate flirtatious raise of his brow, questioning, in that sensuous drawl of his, as to the existence of erotic poems on more than three pages in a row. Jehan has developed an _obsession_ of the sort when it concerns Montparnasse's thighs, or Montparnasse's neck, or his eyes, or maybe it's just Montparnasse in general.

The silence stretches on – like the way the black shirt stretches across Montparnasse's well-defined chest, honestly, his fingers are itching to write more about that chest – until finally, smirking, Montparnasse drawls, precisely like Grantaire's; "So."

And, Jehan, needing to say something, smiles sweetly and counters, "So."

It ought to be awkward, he thinks, but it isn't. Jehan is as comfortable as he can be with a boner hidden beneath his blouse, thank god for small mercy, with Montparnasse's knees brushing his thighs and Montparnasse's ankles brushing the side of his. He reaches forward without looking away from Jehan's face, taps a finger against one of the unfinished lines.

"You write poetry." It's not a question, at least not with the way Montparnasse says it.

Jehan smiles wider. "And you are bad in the flirting department." Also, quite possibly, dealing drugs or smuggling it into the country or the like just as bad, but Jehan refrains.

Montparnasse, to Jehan's delight, laughs. It is a beautiful sound; melodic and careless and he throws his entire body into the laugh. Jehan wants to hear more, more of his voice, of that laugh, yet also how it will sound like when he moans Jehan's name in the quiet of Jehan's spacious loft in the middle of the night. Oh how Grantaire will react.

"I am quite bad at it, that I shan't deny," Montparnasse agrees easily. "But I'm good at a lot of things, in several departments. You haven't seen much of me have you, little dove, but I wager," his hand shifts; just a subtle twist of his wrist, really, and then he is enveloping Jehan's hand in his, larger and more calloused. Bringing it close to his face much like he did with the cup and plants a chaste, lingering kiss on the back of his palm. "I wager a thousand francs and more, that you would like to get to know me very much as I you."

His voice is a deep timbre, slightly rough and unfairly smokey, it makes Jehan _swoon_. Jehan's inner-self is downright _swooning_ at Montparnasse's flirtation, under Montparnasse's mercy. And Montparnasse must know of this, since his fingers are trailing down Jehan's wrist, tracing his pulse, and his grin is cat-like, reminding Jehan once again of Grantaire, and he still hasn't taken his eyes off Jehan's person.

If he wasn't sitting already, Jehan's knees will definitely give out at the sight of that smile, of Montparnasse's touch. As it is, Jehan is not a swooning maiden (although his inner-self is, at the moment, swooning like a maiden). So he braces himself and intertwines Montparnasse's fingers with his, imagining the black leather glove and wondering the feel of it against his backside, rubbing his thumb up and down Montparnasse's index fingers.

He considers fellating Montparnasse's hand in public, but that will be too – risky. Bordering public-sex, possibly as _worse_ as public sex. Jehan is not as cruel as to subject Musichetta into his sex-life-affairs.

Knowing Musichetta, she will probably get off on this when they're gone. Jehan is not one to judge. Montparnasse is very eye-catching after all, he won't blame her for it.

"You wager correct," Jehan purrs out – what the ever loving _fuck_ , he _purrs_ , he can't remember when he has ever wanted someone so much that he _purrs_ , they haven't even been to their first date yet (he will save the public fellating for third date, or maybe second) – watches as Montparnasse's eyes turn considerably fifty shades darker. "Then what say you, charming stranger, if we were to step off this vicinity and catch the first bus leaving to Disney Land right here, right now?"

"Then I will pay for us both, obviously," Montparnasse replies, giddy and overjoyed. It is a good look on him. "Consider it as a... gift of sorts, for having to put up with me on our first date."

"Hmm... Or maybe, if you behave, or if I like you as much as the appreciative side of me likes the sight of your physique, I may reward you by taking you to my loft." Then, he adds, "My Queen-sized bed is rather comfortable for us both, I should think."

Montparnasse's smile softens, and Jehan thinks his heart cannot take the blinding sight of it more than it has already. "I'd rather you take me to your bed willingly, without seeing it as a reward for good behaviour or as such."

Oh, Jehan thinks, and speculates he might die of cardiac arrest if this man does not stop being so perfect all the time. His smile widens, as happy and giddy as Montparnasse is, and they pay for the coffee, and the tea, and the untouched platter of food, and Jehan leaves a big tip for Musichetta underneath Montparnasse's cup.

They leave for Disney Land with a bus, talking animatedly about the James Bond series, Luther, arts, poetry, even politic the whole way. He doesn't think he can be more in love with this man, who has a perchance for dark clothing with his dark humour and the strangely charming way he flirts with Jehan without actually putting an effort to do so.

Jehan takes him to his loft that night, leads him to the bedroom, and they keep kissing but they don't have sex, kissing until they share the same breathing space and Montparnasse's arms are possessively curled around his waist.

In the morning, Montparnasse wakes him with a kiss and a smile; and he makes Jehan waffles and fruit salad and the most delicious tea Jehan's ever tasted, and he asks Jehan for another date at the museum, and the art gallery, and the Bacchus opera to end their night with.

Jehan has never said yes so quick in his life, has never been so sure of something, but with Montparnasse here in his kitchen, with his untamable bed hair and kissed-slick lips, he is sure.

It's a beautiful start and everything he wants.


End file.
